American Press Conference

No one knows what to make of me.  People constantly speak mandarin to me, of which I understand nothing.  I was told today that I could also pass for North Indian.  I thought there would be more Cantonese coming at me; something I do understand.  When I finally do get across that I'm half Singaporean, they ask; "How long have you been gone?  And when did you get back?" Then: "Ohhhh.  Thought you went away to foreign lands and just lost your accent."


I wrote this a long time ago.  I think it sums it up.

 American Press Conference

 march 08, 2007

I am often mistaken
I am often mistaken
I am often mistaken
And I write with the wrong hand

I am a chamelion
In the backdrop of this land

What are you
What are you
What are you?
They all ask

Depends on the weather
Depends on my task

I see this in you
Is that what you are?

Some countries
Though close
Have cultures quite far
Try again my friend
Yes you, in the back

Your tan comes out nicely
Are you from Iraq?

I'll give you a hint
I was born on an island

I was gonna say exactly
That you were Hawaiian!

I come from the cold
So I'll say sadly, No

Aha!  You've got to be Eskimo

That's not it either
And there's not much else left
These standards in greyscales
I'm going bereft

I'm Chinese with Irish
and I swear I'm not fakin
But I'm not often bothered
When I am mistaken

CMP

Walk the Line

I walk on the right.  My brain screams this every time I'm barreling down the gut at someone and I go right and they go left (my right).  A small poof of smoldering smoke escapes from my head, as I stop suddenly and take a deep breath.  I want to illustrate I'm annoyed.  But it's not anyone's fault that in a country where cars drive on the left side and people are quite law abiding, it is the natural instinct to veer to the left.  There's just a lot more mass to the crowds on the street.  This may be due to the perspective of growing up on a country-esque island (which most could only ever picture in lemonade ads).  For anyone who's ever gone on a walk with me from point A to point B, you know I don't walk; I launch.  So I'm feeling a little claustrophobed every time I have to get on the MRT to get somewhere, and I just can't get around anyone! I'm like the A-Hole driver who revs it up and doesn't quite make the gap, only to come to an erratic halt.  I smile apologetically at the people around me, and a father says to a little one, "Move aside, darling."

So I am learning that if I want to stand on the escalator, I should stand on the left.  As I rise into the ever clear air of Singapore, I suddenly remember . . . and I hop to the left like I just escaped a dog chomp to the butt.  Slowly, slowly, learning the lay of the new land.

Mistaken for Strangers

So I've been needing to create a new blog for the past few weeks.  I wanted to call it cassandramay.blogspot.com.  But it was taken.  She's an American called Cassie, and it's about her time in Spain many years ago.  My dad wrote me the other day, and proclaimed, "Dear Cassie, I've finally spelled your name right, are you happy?"  To which I replied, "My name is CassY."  Have you ever met someone with the same name as you and just felt robbed?  This is my first time.  Sorry John Smith, but it's not cool.  I wonder what she's like.

I'm saying goodbye to the ole vietnamchiropractor.blogspot.com.  Too constricting in it's contentical purpose.  I need to feel like I can make up words and have it be ok.  Cuz it's my blog.  Also, I'm not in Vietnam anymore.  I feel like I live on the subways of Singapore.  It's where I spend the majority of my time.  Underground.  Packed away like a sardine.

So far, Singapore life is good.  but expensive.  In Hanoi, if I returned bottles, I could get six big beers for two dollars.  In a bar, one would be fifty cents.  A little beer in Singapore at the bar is ten dollars US.  And you need only say, I'll have a beer.  Cuz it's only Carlsberg.  I miss my Mannys.

It's weird to be in an Asian country where everyone speaks English.  I delight my cabdrivers (or at least myself) with my broken Cantonese.  I have to repeat myself five times before anyone can understand me.  I expected more people to speak Cantonese, but most speak Mandarin.  I'm not sure I've got it in me to learn Chinese.  This is especially true when English is no problem.  I miss my Russian lessons in Hanoi the most.  They were always delivered with homemade strawberry jam.  Russian hosts will always give you the skin off their backs.  Great people.

I've been in Singapore for a week, and I feel like I've accomplished a lot.  I'll have an official employment pass in two days time.

Here is what fascinates me:  I could have been born and raised here; easily.  My parents left in '77 or '78, only because my dad couldn't find a job to keep him here.  They took two boys, a grama, and four cockatoos.  You all knew Baby, my lifelong menace who died last year while I was vacationing in Hawaii.  When I listen to the Singlish, I close my eyes and imagine who I would have been.  And something tells me I would have escaped Singapore to become a New Yorker.  So who would THAT girl be??

Amazing how life turns out.